


Leather and Bone

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Feet, Fluff and Smut, Foot Massage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-05 23:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Trevelyan returns from the Exalted Plains with sore feet.Fortunately, Dorian has some experience in pampering.





	Leather and Bone

The horns announced the Inquisitor’s return to Skyhold.

Dorian set his book down. From his window, he could see a crowd assembling in the lower bailey. The return of the Inquisitor was always a to-do, and within a few minutes Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen appeared to stand in their expected places at the foot of the staircase. A moment later, the red hart trotted across the drawbridge into the yard.

Dorian never tired of the sight.

The beast was truly magnificent, and the way she tossed her antlers never failed to draw gasps and applause from the crowd. Trevelyan, muddy and armored, drew up on her reins.

A groom approached with a step, and the Inquisitor dismounted before he could put it down. Josephine curtsied to him. Behind them, Sera’s dracolisk came snarling and slobbering across the drawbridge, followed by Blackwall on his charger. Vivienne brought up the rear, riding side-saddle on a war nug and looking positively regal on its back.

Trevelyan exchanged the usual pleasantries and greetings with his advisors. For a moment, his eyes lifted over their heads to the tiny windows of the library rotunda.

It was a trick of the mind—Trevelyan was too far away to see Dorian at his window—but it had its intended effect. Dorian swallowed and found his throat suddenly dry.  

As Trevelyan walked with his advisors up the steps, Dorian raised himself in his seat to get a better view. The top of the Inquisitor’s shaved head was sunburned. He strode with the lazy unhurriedness of a lord returning from the hunt, his riding gloves in one hand, his staff in the other.

There was a slight hitch in his step.

The Inquisitor turned the corner to mount the final steps into the great hall, and his heel wobbled. To anyone else, it would look as if his foot had found a fault in the stone.

To Dorian, who knew better, it made him tut.

He licked his thumb and opened his book again. He waited an hour, then two, then lit a candle as the sun began to set. The library patrons slowly stole away to wash up for dinner. Eventually, even Solas set down his quill and scraped his chair back to head for the great hall.

It was approaching midnight when Dorian finally closed his book for good.

 

* * *

 

The dining tables in the great hall had all been pushed back against the walls. Dorian hummed to himself as he crossed the empty, dark hall, the only light being from the torches and moonlight casting red lozenges on the floor through the stained-glass windows.

The two guards at the Inquisitor’s door glowered at him as he approached.

“Gentlemen,” he said, and pushed the door open.

The crows in the tower murmured softly. Every floorboard creaked as he climbed the steps to the bedroom. The ward on the lock sprang open with a flick of his finger, and Dorian entered and closed it behind him. He gave an exaggerated yawn as he came up the stairs.

“Goodness, it’s late.” He leaned on the bannister. “Oh, you’re back?”

Trevelyan sat on the loveseat with his boots kicked up on the table. His chin was propped up on the knuckles of one hand, with the only thing rising to greet Dorian being his eyes.

“Hard trip?” asked Dorian.

Trevelyan flicked the mess of paperwork in his lap with a fingernail. “You could say that.”

Dorian dragged an armchair from across the room and set it down in front of the sofa. He sat down, then noticed a bottle of red wine nestled under Trevelyan’s arm.

“Is that for me?” he asked.

Trevelyan elbowed the bottle deeper into the cushions. They had a brief wrestling match for it, made slightly difficult by Trevelyan pushing at him with his long legs while stubbornly refusing to lift his chin off his hand, but Dorian finally grabbed the bottle and plucked out the cork.

“Ah.” Dorian wafted the bottle under his nose and paused. “You found this in the Exalted Plains, didn’t you?”

That earned him a small smile. Dorian sniffed at the wine again, then shrugged and quaffed it. It burned and bubbled on the way down.

“Now.” Dorian leaned back in the chair. “Tell me all about it.”

“We freed a fortress that was besieged by an army of undead-” said Trevelyan, “-after clearing out two other fortresses that were also besieged by armies of undead. We also exorcised a sacred tomb for a resident Dalish clan and chased a golden halla for three days. You didn’t miss much.”

“Everyone at least came back looking hardy and hale.”

“You weren’t there to see Vivienne yank an arrow out of my ribs.”

Dorian filled his mouth with wine. The descriptions of the Orlesian front had been grisly. For weeks, Dorian had had nightmares of Trevelyan’s corpse laid out in a field amidst thousands of dead soldiers, his body anonymous among the masses, while the mark pulsed in his hand like the punchline of fate’s cruel last joke.

“Sounds cheerful,” he said. “You might have fared better with the corpses if you’d brought a necromancer along.”

“Hm.”

Trevelyan’s eyes were glassy. Dorian wondered how long he had been reading the same paragraph of the same page over and over.

“Speaking of walking,” said Dorian. “I noticed your limp.”

"It was a lot of walking.”

"I don't recall you ever wincing like that before."

"It turns out I'm thirty-five years old. My body is as dismayed as I am."

“ _Tsk_. Sounds like you need to be pampered.”

“I've had stranger things happen.”

Dorian felt a pang. The Inquisition placed such a heavy burden on Trevelyan. There was no time in his life for frivolities and decadence. Even the suggestion made Trevelyan standoffish, as if the idea that he might deserve a little selfishness was vulgar. For a man who had nearly gotten himself killed in a corpse-ridden wasteland for the sake of a world that hated and feared him, he seemed to think he deserved little thanks.  

It was then that he noticed Trevelyan’s boots on the table. They were made of supple black leather and hugged his calves obscenely. Pointed, painful-looking, and ill-suited to tramping around the countryside. The Inquisitor never failed to torture himself more than necessary.

It gave him an idea. He reached over and pulled Trevelyan’s left foot into his lap.

“You never allow yourself to relax, you know that? One of the greatest crimes of the age.” Dorian ran his hand up the smooth leather of the boot. He pinched the back of Trevelyan’s ankle between his thumb and forefinger. 

Trevelyan twitched at the pressure. “It’s a bit hard when the world wants to kill you.”

“Being an Inquisitor isn’t that much different from being a rebel mage, then?”

“The odds are a bit more stacked.”

Firmly, Dorian pinched his way up the back of the leg, massaging the tight muscle beneath the sleeve. He ran his hand back down to the heel again, and the smooth hasp of his palm along the calfskin made him swallow.

“You're never thanked, at least not in the way you deserve." Dorian grasped the heel and worked it back and forth. Once loosened, he slid the boot slowly off Trevelyan’s foot. Placing it on the floor beside the chair, he rubbed his palms over the moist sock. "And you never will be." He wrapped his hands around either side of Trevelyan’s foot and pressed hard.   

Trevelyan hissed. The bones popped and clicked under the steady pressure.

“Perhaps I can remedy that,” said Dorian.

He grasped the top of the sock and rolled it off. The unwashed scent of Trevelyan's foot assailed his nostrils. The toenails were ghastly, yellowed and jagged, but Dorian clasped his hands around the toes and squeezed them until they cracked.

Trevelyan made a little sound in his throat. Dorian pressed his thumb hard under the arch of the big toe. He extended it back as far it would go, then curled it back down. He took each toe individually between his fingers and curled and uncurled it until the joints were as quiet as a well-oiled hinge.

By the time he pressed both thumbs into the arch of Trevelyan’s foot, Trevelyan’s breathing had gotten markedly ragged. The callouses were as thick as a camel’s pad, cracked and golden-brown and scarred with decades of blisters scabbed and healed over. It was the foot of a wanderer, and one that throbbed hot and aching under Dorian’s touch.

“If we were in Minrathous,” whispered Dorian. “I would take you to the _Uitta Casia_ —a little boudoir in the lavender district. They put hot stones on your back and rub royal jelly into your calves—all while feeding you tiny prawns on a long silver fork between sips of sweet raisin wine.  Hm. And krupuk.”

“Krupuk?”

“Flour crackers cooked in oil,” said Dorian. “Delicious.”

“I take it you went there often?”

“For certain services. You would have done well. All the masseuses would have fought over who got to put their hands on you first.”

He traced his fingers down to the taut bow of the hamstring. He rolled the ankle around its socket, listening with a pleased smile to the little creaks as he twisted it to and fro.

“Eventually, you’d be fed and sleepy, and the real service would begin.”

“Which is?”

Dorian flicked his gaze up at him. “Let’s get your other boot off first.”

It was a slow, tortuous thing. Dorian went though every step that he’d done with the first foot, taking his time and digging his fingers into the meat of the ankle and heel. Trevelyan squirmed through it all. He twisted on the couch, his gloved hand over his mouth, pupils blown and brow sweating. He looked as if he couldn’t believe what was being done to him. 

Both of Trevelyan’s bare feet were in Dorian’s lap now. They were soft and limber, their flesh heavy on soft, warm bones. Dorian washed his hands over them, then slowly pulled them apart and placed them gently on either side of his chair.

He sat forward and tugged on Trevelyan’s belt. Pulling it loose and throwing it over his shoulder, it landed with a clunk somewhere behind the bed. He then tugged Trevelyan’s trousers and small clothes down around his hips. They both came away easily, and there was his man—pale thighs, pale legs, his long cock red and flushed against his stomach.

It twitched charmingly—like a dog waiting for attention. Dorian gave it an affectionate rub, then allowed his hand to drift south.

“Come here,” rasped Trevelyan.

“I’m comfortable here, thanks.”

“Come here, or you’ll wake up in the stocks tomorrow.”

“Tyrant.” Dorian moved to the sofa. He sat beside Trevelyan and dragged his arse sideways into his lap. With the man’s knees together, his balls were a stripe of red-grey flesh between his thighs. Dorian thumbed their seam, then returned his attention to the main attraction.

Trevelyan had the ugliest ass Dorian had ever seen. It was flat as a table, and lacking enough that it was often necessary to cover the back of the Inquisitor’s duster with a pack. Dorian adored it, and he palmed it greedily now.

“After you'd gotten your special treatment, I’d show you the town. Minrathous doesn’t really come alive until night. There’s the river barges, the perfume organs, the torch songs through Levius Park. We’d walk all over, until your feet were sore again.”

“And then?” prompted Trevelyan in a whisper.

“And then I’d take you back home,” Dorian slid a thumb over Trevelyan’s asshole. It was dry and unwashed, musky from days in the saddle, but the scent still sent Dorian’s blood into a gallop.

He spat in his palm and rubbed a gobbet of saliva over the ball of his thumb. “I’d have you washed in lavender and rubbed down with sponges made from pumice from one of the northern volcanoes. The things I’d pay to have done to you….obscene. Thousands of gold spent in a single night, all so you’d be washed and pretty for me.”

Dorian rubbed the tender flesh until it started to soften and pucker. It was so sweet, even after all the times they had been together, to see Trevelyan like this. Soft, limp, and receptive in Dorian’s arms. He pressed the blunt head of his fingernail inside until the muscle gripped him, then pressed a little harder.  

The muscle was tight and resistant, but they worked together, and soon they had it inside. Dorian sat there, wishing he had a brandy, feeling the Inquisitor’s heartbeat pound luxuriously around his thumb.

“I could do the rest of you like this, you know.” He slid his free hand up Trevelyan’s shirt and rubbed the tense muscles of his back. He pinched the meat between neck and shoulder, enjoying the little whine it wrung out of him. “Lay you out like they would in the _Uitta_ , give you a proper full massage.”

Trevelyan flicked a heated glance back at him.

“Lie down on the bed,” said Dorian.

Trevelyan rose, his legs wobbling a little as he did so, and slung off his shirt. He took two steps and flopped face-down on the bed. Dorian admired the sight of him like that, then rubbed his hands together.

“You’re not going to use that convection spell I taught you, are you?” asked Trevelyan, the words muffled by the pillow.

“I promise not to scald your backside this time,” said Dorian.

Before coming South, Dorian had never had reason to learn how to warm his body with magic. It was a common bit of spellwork, almost base in its simplicity and well beneath his station. His first frozen nights in the Hinterlands had reversed that conviction. He had watched the way the southern mages flicked tiny heating spells over their clothes and boots and tried to copy them—only to singe his fingers and set one of his socks on fire.

Trevelyan had been a patient teacher after that, if the sufferer of his own burned skin.

Dorian was determined to prove himself capable this time. Trevelyan deserved no less, and he preened at the idea of Trevelyan growing pliant and eager beneath him.

Magic prickled under the skin of his palms. It was mildly unpleasant at first, but the heat dispersed and became a steady roar. He crawled on his knees onto the bed and slid his palms up the backs of Trevelyan’s calves.

Trevelyan gave a moan. He buried his face in his pillow and tugged a knee up, giving Dorian a glimpse of the wiry black hair around his asshole. Dorian continued his northward progress, pausing every few inches to massage heat into the flesh. He arrived at the buttocks and kneaded them with his hands. He gripped the flesh and squeezed it, pulling it apart then mashing it together. He tucked his thumbs at the bottoms of the cheeks and pulled them apart.

It was tempting to stop here, but Trevelyan deserved the full treatment. He had paused so long, though, that Trevelyan chuckled.

“You're really not joking? This is really how the masseuses behaved at your spa?” he asked.

“Only if they wanted to keep their good reputations,” said Dorian. “They would hardly make any coin if they stopped at the massage.” 

“Oh, and you know this from personal experience?”

“I know that they have very study massage tables.”

He reluctantly released the globes of Trevelyan’s ass. Rubbing northward, he paid special attention to the lower muscles of Trevelyan’s back, tense and knotted as they were from long days of swinging a staff. He stroked the dorsal muscles, up to the shoulders, where Trevelyan began to really make noise.

“You’re too tight," said Dorian. “All this tension bottled up inside you. I haven’t been doing my job.”

“Which is?”

Dorian leaned down so that his breath was right in Trevelyan’s ear. “Making sure you have a place to fall to pieces at the end of the day.”

Dorian stroked his fingers up the column of Trevelyan’s neck. He rubbed the vertebrae and slid his palm up the back of the shaved head to cup the rough skin of his scalp. As his hand curved there, he was struck, not for the first time that day, at how fragile the Inquisitor was. A slight adjustment in the output of the heating spell, and Trevelyan’s brains would cook inside his skull. A flick of fire, and this little idol of meat and bone that Dorian routinely worshipped would become a mangled, ruined mess.

Dorian was close because Trevelyan let him get this close. He was the only person allowed near, and that knowledge was humbling. All the world wanted this man dead, and here Dorian was, able to finish the deed in a thousand different ways.

He leaned down and blew a fart against Trevelyan’s neck.

Trevelyan gagged, though in good humor. Dorian held him down with one hand and set about finishing his work. He ended the massage by lifting each arm and turning the joints, loosening them with deep pressure and thorough manipulation. When it was all done, Trevelyan rolled over between Dorian’s knees and beamed up at him, wide-awake and hard.

“Better?” asked Dorian.

“Come here.”

Dorian didn’t need to be told a third time. He lowered himself down and was instantly trapped in a mass of sweaty limbs as Trevelyan wrapped around him. Trevelyan inhaled him hungrily, his fingers carding through his hair and twisting it at the base of the neck.

“This is typically how my massage sessions ended in Minrathous, too,” murmured Dorian against lips. “Though the roles were usually reversed—”

Trevelyan sucked the words away. The kissing was frenzied, and Dorian preened. No more tension or exhaustion, just _heat_.

“Get inside me,” panted Trevelyan.

“And here I thought you were sore,” said Dorian, but he was happy to oblige.  

Between the fireplace and the excitement, they were both burning up. Dorian disrobed in record time. He settled between Trevelyan's thighs and used his fingers and tongue on him until he was yanked back into an impatient kiss. Trevelyan spread himself, his nails digging little half-moons into his flesh as Dorian pressed inside.

It was always so much _more_ than he expected. The heat, the pressure, the immediate oblivion of every other concern in Dorian's life except the immediate question:  _why don't we do this all the time?_ He let out a moan as if he was the one being taken, and Trevelyan cackled. He bit Dorian all over his ears and neck like an animal, twisting his legs tight around him. He was such a delicious demon, Dorian couldn’t help but devour him in return.

 _Remind me to give him massages more often,_ Dorian thought. The pressure around the head of his cock like a throbbing point of red inside his body. Sweat dripped down the backs of his thighs and pooled in the small of his back. They were wrapped around each other so tightly that they were not so much rutting as squeezing, neither willing to let go long enough to risk air slipping between them.

It was nice to imagine it could always be like this. That ten, twenty years from now Dorian would have him this way in his bed in Minrathous, wrapped up in silk sheets, the humid air of the Nocen Coast clinging to their skin. That they might walk away from this war to drink real wine and eat real krupuk and experience firsthand the thousand other sights and smells that would break Dorian's heart to share.

That he might keep Trevelyan alive long enough to give him to a real massage in the _Uitta Casia._

Dorian dragged a drunken hand up Trevelyan's thigh. He was so dizzy with pleasure that it was all he could do to hold on. He heard Trevelyan making that oh, oh, _oh_ sound over and over that meant he was falling. His body opened, his feet rose in the air, and his mouth fell open as he chased that rising pleasure.

Dorian felt his body kick against him when he found it.  

Trevelyan shook, and his nose crinkled as he came. The tight flesh around Dorian's cock hugged him deep, and that was enough to topple him over the edge. He came with a noise that would have been embarrassing if he didn't need it so badly, thrusting in a frenzy of slapping flesh, letting himself lose control until, at last, the tide receded from him.

They sagged together in a sweaty heap. Dorian lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily, letting the spasms of pleasure wring out of him.

“Do I have to tip you?” murmured Trevelyan in now deafening quiet of the room.

“No, though I could stand a bath. We both smell like the Exalted Plains now.”  

Trevelyan kissed his shoulder. “Thank you. Really. You always seem to know what I need better than I do.”

“It is good to see you relaxed for once. Though, I do have a way you could return the favor.”

“Hm?”

Dorian propped himself up on his arms. “Take the necromancer along the next time you run around Orlais fighting undead.”

Trevelyan huffed a laugh. "He is a man of many talents."

"Yes," agreed Dorian. "Lucky for you."


End file.
